Social Mediation

I let Julie go home Saturday night, at nine, when the party was supposed to be over, she has a family and a life, and it was clear the party wasn't over. The father of the bride was an architect and we talked about various styles of building, and about visualizing how specific things might be finished. By the end of the evening he was talking to me as an equal. He knew I knew more about construction than he did. Mostly I work alone to resist any kind of competition. I don't play games, but I do enjoy the occasional puzzle, see my way through. Just before dark, the wind has the sumac turned inside out and I figure any small tornado would follow the hollows, I would, if I was a wind-storm, the path of least resistance, and the rain beats a patter against the roof. It's clear that nothing makes any sense, stretch as you might. Conditional. Consider the flowers within just a square yard, the miniature iris, whatever that wild pansy, a small white flower that almost escapes my attention, the natural world. Listen. This is as close as it gets. No reservation, late, the bugs are making a point. The ridge is a unique biosphere, a world ten thousand years old; build a twig fire at the mouth of a cave, or at the leeward of a tree-trip pit. Ten thousand possible endings but you find yourself there, not that it matters, in the great scheme of things. This train don't carry no liars. Stranded, I ain't got a home in this world any more. Mississippi John Hurt, "Lay My Burden Down", I do love the blues late at night. Can't believe how out of it I was yesterday; I almost never nap but I must have nodded off six or eight times. Today I listened to all of the news shows on NPR because I'd been so out of touch for a week. I do, actually, like to keep in touch with the doings of the world, in addition to my more esoteric pursuits. I'm surprised at the shock about privacy issues. Your grocery store, for god's sake, knows more about you than you'd care to admit. Nice soaking rain today. Last year, at this time, we were in a drought and the farmers were pulling their hair. Twice today I ate a great dish based on left-over food: a pile of smashed baked potato with thinly sliced pork (country ribs), and an egg on top. I would have had the whole thing on toast, but my bread had gone moldy. I hate waste, and Americans waste a huge amount of food, so I make a lot of soup and some interesting forcemeats; things I can't use I feed to animals. Throw a country rib out on the verge and it will be gone tomorrow. Guaranteed. Anything organic. The natural world is voracious. Omnivorous. I sometimes stop at the lake and throw out ten dozen hamburger buns and they're always gone the next morning. Linda and Glenn call, from St. Paul, and it takes me a minute to find my voice, I hadn't spoken to anyone since the reception and it was like I had forgotten how to talk. I'd like to take a road trip out to see them, cook a meal for some of their friends. Engage in conversation. What I have right now is tree frogs and a million cicadas. It's very loud outside. A weird reversal. Usually, I go outside for the quiet, now I hole up in a corner of the library, under the workbench, hoping to god I wouldn't be hit by a fragment of whatever that bullet was. It's so loud it begs the question.